


Paper Hearts

by artificialmeggie (ohmymeggs)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Rating to increase slowly, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-12-18 13:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18250709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmymeggs/pseuds/artificialmeggie
Summary: It wasn't totally taboo—he’d read through his contract enough to know they weren’t explicitly not allowed to fool around, but he’d never allowed himself the time to even consider it because he’d always been so laser-focused on winning. He still is. A momentary lapse in judgment to hold the hand of someone who needed reassurance won’t distract him from the main prize. But he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t felt nice to stand there, holding Vanessa’s hand and not feel like he was totally alone in this. It felt right somehow.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Branjie trash now. It's fine. Also, I have no idea what I'm doing.  
> We're following canon here (with the exception of, I know production wouldn't actually let this happen. Shh. Respect the narrative flow.).  
> I used drag names for both. Male pronouns for both.

The early-evening Los Angeles sky is painted with muted blues and purples that fade into soft gold at the fringes of the mountains as Brooke steps out onto his balcony, cigarette between his lips, lighter clutched in his hand. He lights his cigarette—a habit he hates, if he's being perfectly honest, but it's left over from dancing, and _Drag Race_ is stressful as hell after only two days even if he _did_ just win the first challenge, and he honestly just needs something comfortable right now. He'll quit (again) after he wins. Most likely. Probably.

“Ooh, that's a nasty habit, Miss Brooke Lynn.”

The voice comes from his right and he couldn't mistake it if he tried. Vanjie's voice is characteristically gruff and accented and loud, and Brooke doesn't try to stop the smile that spreads across his lips as he takes another drag off the cigarette.

“You're not wrong,” he quips, turning to direct his grin at Vanessa. “What the hell are you doing in the room right next to mine? I thought production had us all on totally different floors.”

Vanjie shrugs, his petite shoulders moving up and down in one quick, smooth motion under his T-shirt. He's in shorts, too, all smooth legs in the quickly cooling night air. Brooke tries desperately not to notice just how attractive he really is.

“I was up on the twelfth floor, but a water pipe burst and this was the only room they had, so...” He shrugs again and holds out his hands. “I guess we're neighbors now. For now, anyway. So why are you out here burning up your lungs?"

“Ballerinas live on cigarettes and coffee, haven’t you heard?” They laugh together, and Brooke chuckles quietly while he examines the cigarette. “No. I don’t know. Old habits die hard, I guess. I’d quit actually, and then… This is a goddamn marathon.”

Then he purses his lips together around the cigarette and sucks in deep and finds he's in a hurry to finish it after Vanjie called him out, but not in a hurry to go back inside. Their doors have been taped closed for the last hour, ever since they got back to the hotel after filming the first runway and shoveling down cold pizza and soggy salads for dinner after bidding farewell to Soju.

“So...” Brooke says as he stubs out his cigarette on the metal railing and tosses the butt into a paper cup he's filled with water and placed on the balcony for that exact purpose. “You made it through the first week. How do you feel?”

“Relieved,” Vanessa spits without thinking. “And nervous. Because now I don't know what to expect. I'd already done all that shit before—entrance, first challenge, first runway... It just didn't go so well last year. Now... Shit, girl, I don't know what to expect. I'm in the same boat as all of y'all.”

“Good! Now we’re even.” Brooke laughs and nods and leans over to rest his chin on his arms and stretch through his back and legs. “I guess I’ll just have to keep my eye on you, Miss Vanessa.”

“Miss Vanessa?”

Brooke shrugs. “I could call you other things if you prefer.”

“I think I like it when you call me that,” Vanessa says slowly, like he himself is testing out the words. “Miss… Vanessa… Not Miss Vanjie. Call me that: Miss Vanessa.”

“You got it.” He winks.

And, oh, god, he’s _flirting_ , and he's totally _aware_ that he's flirting, and he can't even make himself care because it's not like he had a boyfriend when he came to LA. It's not like he expected to find himself so attracted to someone either. Other queens usually don't do it for him. But Vanessa is so different. So refreshingly honest and open and undeniably handsome… And beautiful.

“I don't think I told you earlier,” Vanjie is saying softly, pulling Brooke from his thoughts, “you deserved to win, really. You looked incredible today. And every day. I mean, every day that I've seen you. But today especially, you looked... Jesus, Vanjie, just stop talking.” He has his left hand pressed to his forehead like there's an off button up there that he can access, but Brooke could listen to him talk for hours, and not just because he's extolling compliments left and right.

“Vanjie.” Brooke crosses to the far right side of his balcony, as close to Vanessa as he can get, and stretches out a hand that Vanjie takes as he looks up at Brooke. “Thank you. And, for the record, just so we're clear: you don't ever have to stop talking when I'm around. I enjoy listening to you speak.”

Vanjie smiles then and his brown eyes light up, and Brooke squeezes their fingers together, fully aware of the way his heart speeds up when he does so.

*****

It's two in the morning and Brooke Lynn can't sleep. Half of it is adrenaline, he's sure, because not only did he just finish his first runway, but he _won_ his first runway; and half of it, he thinks, is Vanjie. Because he’d meant it when he’d said he liked hearing Vanessa talk.

More eloquently put, he’d meant that he liked talking _to_  him as a person, but the opportunity had presented itself to hold Vanjie’s hand and make him feel better, so he’d done it. It wasn't totally taboo—he’d read through his contract enough to know they weren’t explicitly not allowed to fool around, but he’d never allowed himself the time to even consider it because he’d always been so laser-focused on _winning_. He still _is_. A momentary lapse in judgment to hold the hand of someone who needed reassurance won’t distract him from the main prize. But he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t felt nice to stand there, holding Vanessa’s hand and not feel like he was totally alone in this. It felt _right_ somehow.

So sleep still eludes him, despite the fact that he expects the exhaustion to kick in at any point. He’s _been_ expecting it. And still, he's been lying in bed for the past two hours, tossing and turning, waiting for sleep to catch up to him and thinking about the fact that Vanessa is just on the other side of the wall.

Production had taken the room phones out of the hotel rooms before they'd moved in, so even if he _wanted_ to call Vanjie (which he _does_ , let's be honest, or he wouldn't be thinking about it at two a.m.), it's not possible.

“This is stupid,” Brooke whispers into the dark as he flips the blankets off his legs and sits up, pausing momentarily to listen for any sounds from the other side of the wall. He stands and pads across the plush carpeted floor to the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony, wondering if he wants a cigarette or just the cool night air. He decides it’s the latter he’s truly craving, leaves his cigarette pack on the desk, and slides open the door so he can step into the darkness.

Before he gets completely outside, he notices Vanjie standing at the railing looking out over the city spread out before them, all white and yellow lights in the night, and decides that one good turn deserves another. Brooke Lynn clears his throat slightly. “Can't sleep either?”

Vanessa jumps a little and clutches at his chest before he laughs. “Oh-ho-ho, bitch! I sleep fine, but you know, I just wanted to experience Los Angeles by moonlight.” His left hand finds his tiny hip and it pops out to the side automatically.

“More like Los Angeles by neon,” Brooke replies, stepping to the corner of the balcony (again, as close as they can get to each other) and leaning on the railing. “Well. _I_ couldn't sleep.”

Vanjie snorts. “I figured you'd be dreaming up ways to remind us all you've got this competition on lock.” He smiles, then plops down on the floor of the balcony and crosses his legs under him. Brooke follows suit, and he can just make out Vanjie's face through the slats in the metalwork of the balcony railings.

“No...” He's almost too distracted by those damn shorts to respond any further. “And I don’t... I just don't ever want to get complacent. I feel like that's a dangerous place to be, I guess?”

Vanjie shrugs. “You know, I’ve never made it this far, but I guess you're right. From what I hear, when girls get comfortable, that's usually when they go home.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, watching headlights crawl along the freeway, listening to traffic from the city and music from some club down the block. And then Brooke can't help but ask...

“So you're like an icon,” he says, trying to keep the obvious fan from creeping into his voice. He's watched the show. He's guilty himself of throwing a few “Miss Vanjies” around on the mic at Play before he knew he was cast. And there's no way he could have known (he maybe could have _guessed_ , but he doesn’t like to speculate) that he'd be on the same season as Vanessa, let alone be hotel neighbors with him, _let alone_ be bonding (and kind of flirting?) with her at two in the morning the day of the first runway. Life is weird.

“I don't know about all that.” Vanessa shrugs and picks at a loose string on his shorts. “I was embarrassed to be going home. I said a thing. It caught on. I got lucky. It could have happened to any of those girls. It _has_ happened to girls before. ‘This is not RuPaul’s Best Friend Race.’ ‘Bitch, I am from Chicago.’ All of those one-liners and most people can’t even tell you who said them.”

“Yeah, but it happened to _you_.”

“It did.”

“And you made sure everyone would know who said it because you used your name!”

“That was _not_ my intention. It just worked out that way,” Vanjie says with a sigh.

“I know,” Brooke replies softly. “But now you're back...”

Vanjie makes a noncommittal humming noise in the back of his throat and Brooke worries for a moment that he's pushed too hard, that Vanessa will shut down and that this—whatever is developing between them, a friendship, an alliance, a partnership, _more_ —will wither and fade away before he's able to explore it as much as he'd like.

“And now I'm back... With _so_ much to prove.” He shakes his head. “I'm nervous, Brooke. What if I just disappoint everybody? What if I'm just destined to be 'Miss Vanjie' forever?”

Brooke pauses for a moment and watches as a bug flitters around the light of the balcony above him. “From what I saw today, I don't think that's going to be the case at all. And I'm not a bullshitter, okay? So I'm _not_ bullshitting you. Besides, you can't go home yet. I'm not done getting to know you.”

Vanessa smiles and the moonlight reflects off a swath of highlighter that somehow remains near his temple. A strong gust of wind rustles through the palm trees above them.

“God, it's just so pretty here, isn't it?” Brooke says, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I love Canada, and I love Tennessee, but California… It’s different.”

“I guess, but... I'm not so interested in the scenery anymore,” Vanjie says quietly, stretching across the distance between rooms and reaching for Brooke's hand.

Brooke offers it and Vanjie twines their fingers together.

They sit like that for a long time, talking quietly now and again about the other girls, about Vanjie’s experience on the tour, about their siblings and parents and pets and childhoods until their words come farther and farther apart, and then Vanessa starts snoring softly, his head resting against the balcony railing in a position that can’t be comfortable. Brooke shivers as the night air raises goosebumps on his exposed arms and legs, but he remains outside, fingers laced loosely through Vanjie’s, and dozes on and off until the early morning light peeks over the horizon, when he reluctantly wakes the other and they bid each other goodnight and head inside.

Brooke falls into bed around six o'clock, already dreading the knock he knows will come at seven-thirty sharp. Sleep overcomes him immediately.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brooke Lynn indulges in a fantasy, doesn’t choose Vanessa in a group challenge, and realizes how much he misses Vanjie's presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely words about the first chapter! I can’t tell you enough what it means to know that you are reading and enjoying what I’m putting out there. That said, I still don’t know what I’m doing. 
> 
> The title is taken from a song of the same name by Silver Trees featuring Bailey Jehl. It’s lovely, and the lyrics, I felt, were very fitting. 
> 
> Things get a little (very little) more smutty this chapter, kittens.

Brooke Lynn wakes sated, if not fully rested in the morning, and though he usually prefers to jump right out of bed and straight into his day—it's that ballerina self-discipline, he supposes—today he slaps the alarm and coaxes out of his brain a few more blissful minutes of slumber that are filled with palm trees, sunrises, and Vanessa's tan, thin legs.

When he finally rousts himself, he turns the shower on as hot as he can stand it, steps under the spray, and allows himself to reflect on the events of the previous evening. Last night had been new. Interesting. A welcome change from the harried pace of _Drag Race_ to which he's already grown accustomed. But in the harsh light of day, with the weight of the competition pressing around him like a vise, Brooke can't help but think that whatever connection he'd felt—imagined, probably—between Vanessa and himself needs to be severed immediately. He's there to win, damn it, and make his country proud, and he isn't going to let anyone stand between him and that crown.

Not even if that someone is a tiny, adorable Puerto Rican who had made the rapidly, madly spinning world grind to a halt whenever he had taken Brooke's hand.

And suddenly, Brooke Lynn is thinking about Vanjie's muscular, dark legs jutting out from those gray shorts and the way his cut off T-shirt had risen above his navel earlier this morning after Brooke had squeezed his hand and whispered his name to wake him, and they'd stood together and stretched, greeting the morning sun with groans of protest.

He'd awoken half-hard in his bed, and this mental recollection stiffens him completely, so he grabs his dick and strokes himself with long, languid pumps, imagining Vanjie's hands, lips, tongue until he comes hard, Vanessa's name dying on his lips and washing down the drain along with the evidence of his morning activities.

He switches the tap to cold and stands beneath the showerhead, staring at his toes and willing his breathing to slow.

It was only a minor lapse in judgment, he reminds himself. He's indulged his fantasy, gotten it out of his system, and now he's free to focus solely and primarily on the competition.

Brooke stands in the icy spray until his fingers are numb, but he can't convince himself that he means what he says.

*****

Vanessa finds him during their breakfast in the hotel conference room where they gather before the day really starts, and he's smiling as he takes the seat next to Brooke, clutching a muffin in his hand and slipping an orange into his pocket.

“For later.” He shrugs and bumps playfully into Brooke's shoulder, just as the latter lifts his spoon to take a bite of yogurt. “You sleep good?”

“Not as well as you did,” Brooke retorts, wiping the errant bite of yogurt off his chin. Then he flitters his eyes closed and imitates Vanjie's soft snoring sounds from the balcony the night before.

Vanjie's jaw drops open a little in reply, and he sucks in a deep breath to form a verbal response, but then Silky joins their table with a plate of waffles and a story about how all her towels are too stiff, and they're reduced to sidelong glances and eye-rolls and half-smiles punctuated between Silky's paragraphs.

After breakfast, they're separated when Vanjie hangs back to hear the end of Silky's story about a Halloween performance gone wrong, so Brooke is the first to claim a spot in one of the two waiting vans. It's just as well. His legs are far too long for him to sit in the back row.

He's sitting with his forehead pressed against the glass, wondering if he can catch another 20 minutes of sleep when they're inevitably caught in the ever-present Los Angeles traffic when he feels the seat beside him dip with the pressure of another person.

“Come on, Vanjie,” Silky gasps. “Don't make a bitch climb in the second row.”

“You'll live,” Vanessa says flippantly. “I like the view from up here.”

With his face still turned toward the window, Brooke Lynn feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards the tiniest bit because he feels the weight in Vanjie's words even if no one else does. Behind him, Silky groans and collapses into the second row next to A'keria.

Once they're in place and navigating through the already congested LA streets, Brooke feels Vanessa's hand creep towards his on the seat and then, gently, almost imperceptibly, he reaches out and loops his pinky around Brooke's.

Brooke freezes for a moment, vaguely remembering his promise to himself that he'll sever all ties and focus on the competition, but then he turns and looks at Vanjie, and the latter smiles and squeezes their fingers even more tightly together.

“Shh,” Vanessa mouths. “Our secret.”

And that's when Brooke decides to put the plan to cut Vanjie (mostly) out of his life on ice, at least for the day. Because when Vanessa touches him, the world stops spinning and he feels like he can catch his breath for a moment, however fleeting it is. It's peaceful and easy. As much as he wants to win, he isn't ready to give that up yet.

*****

They keep their distance from each other in the Werk Room mostly out of necessity because Brooke didn't automatically choose Vanessa to be on his team after he won the mini challenge, and it came back to bite him in the ass. He _was_ going to choose him, just not right away because he's managed to convince himself that _everyone_ saw what happened between the two of them on the van this morning and is now plotting how to use _whatever the hell this is_ against them. So, yes, he _was_ going to choose Vanjie (eventually), but Silky beat him to the punch. And, to be honest, he’s still bitter as hell over it.

So first they had ended up on different teams, and then Ru had come in, eager to stir the pot with a _giant fucking spoon_ with all that talk about “big personalities,” and even though Brooke tried to be diplomatic at first, that twit Ariel had opened her mouth and landed them all in hot water with arguably the most volatile person there. Silky had, naturally, been more than a little upset (not that Brooke can blame her) and had practically forbidden her team from even glancing over in their direction (Brooke felt that part might have been a little extreme).

He hadn't talked to Vanessa all day, and Brooke Lynn had found that he already missed his friend, missed his unique approach to things, missed hearing him grumble as he bent over the sewing machine, missed the way he swore under his breath as he tried to thread a needle. And he missed the weight of their hands twisted together as they sat on their balconies last night and the feeling of their pinkies intertwined as Brooke dozed in the van this morning. He missed that already as well.

He had forced himself to stay focused on the challenge, though, because he'd won the first maxi challenge _and_ the second mini, and he was team leader. Plus he'd firmly decided that he wasn't going to let _anyone_ distract him from the larger goal. He had changed his mind about totally severing ties with Vanjie, and that meant they were now free to cultivate a friendship and be there for each other when things got tough.

After all, like he'd said last night, _Drag Race_ was a marathon, not a sprint, and it might be nice to have someone to help coax him along those metaphorical 26.2 miles.

Silky forces her team to ride in the same van together back to the hotel and sit apart from the other girls at dinner. “Probably doesn't want one of them to accidentally spill secrets about their challenge or some bullshit, like we _care_ ,” Ariel had quipped with an eye-roll. Brooke thinks Silky's feelings are probably just hurt.

So Brooke retires to his room with his script and a niggling headache after dinner, anxious for Vanjie's presence after not having it all day, but not sure that the magic that had unfolded so unexpectedly last night will repeat itself. After all, lightning never strikes twice.

It's just after nine when that idea of a headache blooms into a full-blown pounding one right behind his eyes, so Brooke flips closed his script, cursing himself for casting his own stupid ass in the main role, shoves a cigarette between his lips, and steps onto the balcony.

And there's Vanjie, silhouetted against the hazy, navy blue-cast Los Angeles sky, gesticulating wildly as he rehearses his lines, the pages of his open script fluttering gently in the breeze. He's barefoot, legs stretching up once again to shorts (red this time), with a baseball cap turned backwards on her head. He's shirtless, and though it isn't the first time Brooke has seen Vanessa's bare chest, it is the first time he's been able, free from the prying eyes of the girls or cameras, to take his time to _look._

Brooke thinks he's absolutely lovely.

“Maybe I should go back inside,” Brooke jokes after he's committed all the planes and dips of Vanessa's musculature to memory. “I wouldn't want your team leader to think that you're fraternizing with the enemy.”

Vanjie pulls a face as he turns around. “Fr... Fratner...” He stumbles over the pronunciation, and it only endears him even more to Brooke. Finally, he just laughs. “You and I both know we ain't been doin' none of _that_ , Miss Brooke. 'Less things got more interesting than I thought last night, and I just don't remember for some reason...”

The blood rushes to Brooke's cheeks and (despite his knowledge that he  _should_ be fighting these feelings) between his legs, and he shifts a little, hoping the bagginess of his sweats and the quickly falling darkness will hide the semi-stiffness.

He lights his cigarette (vasoconstriction will probably also help) and takes a long drag. “Trust me, Vanessa, if things _had_ gotten that intense, you'd definitely remember.”

“I know that's right,” Vanjie replies quietly, but his eyes linger on Brooke as the blonde leans against the railing, taking long pulls from his cigarette and willing his heart to slow. Brooke notices that Vanessa makes no attempt to hide her gaze.

“So how's your group?” Brooke finally says because he has to find a way to break the almost unbearable tension that's developed between them and talking is _the only viable option_. “Ready to get your asses handed to you by the Queens of Dragkanda?”

Vanjie shrugs, seemingly disappointed that the moment (whatever it was to him) has disappeared, but he recovers quickly. “Ooh, you're feeling yourself, aren't you, _mami_?”

“I liked winning,” Brooke says matter-of-factly. “I'd like to keep winning. Right up until Mama Ru puts that crown on my perfectly coiffed head.”

“Come on, confidence!” And then they're quiet and the only sounds are the burning of Brooke's cigarette and the ambient sounds from the city around them.

“I want to win,” Vanessa says, the softness and vulnerability from the night before creeping back into his voice. “Just once, even. I just want to know what it's like.”

“You will,” Brooke says with finality. “You will. Just keep telling yourself that.” He finishes his cigarette then, tosses the butt into the cup, and crosses to what's become the most familiar spot on the far righthand side of the balcony, the place where he can be closest to Vanjie.

“How are you so fucking confident?” he asks. “You walk into a room and you just... You own it. Every damn time.”

“You do, too, girl.” Brooke snorts. “Trust me.”

Vanessa shakes his head. “Not like you. Me and Silk, and a lot of queens, I guess... We've got big personalities. You know, like... We walk in, loud and annoying—obnoxious—and make people pay attention to us that way. Or we become a fucking meme... But what you do... It's so calm and quiet. Peaceful.”

Brooke studies his toes that peek out from his slides. The yellow polish is chipping. He'll have to redo them before they shoot tomorrow. It's just as well. The color doesn't really match her Dragkanda costume.

“I don't feel peaceful,” he admits. “I constantly feel like I'm going out of my mind trying to keep up with everyone. My brain, it never shuts off. I'm _exhausted_ because I can't ever make myself be quiet enough to just relax.”

“I just meant that... You're real _poised_ , Brooke,” Vanessa says with a sigh. “And eloquent. I wish I could be more like you most of the time.”

Brooke glances down at his hand and realizes that he's holding onto the railing like a barre and standing with his feet in third position. You couldn't beat the training out of him if you tried. But, point proven: _so goddamn uptight_.

He shrugs. “Maybe I wish I could be more like you.”

Vanjie laughs, and it's loud and quick and makes Brooke jump a little, startled out of the gravity of their conversation. “Why? We're total opposites! You're so put together, and I'm so...”

“ _Put together_ in a different way,” Brooke Lynn supplies. “You don't become as successful as _you_ are by being a mess, no matter what you may think about yourself, Miss Vanessa. And there is a lot to be said for being able to let go every now and then. _That's_ the part of you I wish I could be more like. A little bit vulnerable. I come off as a total ice queen, but, you know, maybe that's my secret. Maybe what _you_ interpret for confidence is actually just me being a total bitch.”

“I don't think that,” Vanjie says quietly after a moment. “I think you're nice and kind and super fucking smart and really, really handsome.”

And the moment is back, when the air is thick with tension between them. Vanessa's brown eyes are wide and waiting, open and vulnerable, when Brooke looks over to him. And _this_ is what Brooke meant when he said he wished he could be more like Vanjie because _this_ is what he's wanted to say all day but couldn't even admit to himself.

The spark between them is there and it's absolutely undeniable, Brooke's plans and logic be damned. But this game they're playing is incredibly dangerous, and he knows that Vanessa must feel it too. Because as much as is on the line for Brooke, there's even more riding there for Vanjie, he'd said as much in their conversation last night. Still, something is building, breaking, bursting between them, and Brooke feels like there are a million tiny things he should say and only one that really matters.

He takes in a slow, shuddering breath. “I'd very much like to kiss you now, Miss Vanessa.”

And Vanjie nods. “I'd like that... Very much.”

And they're bracing themselves on the metal railings of their hotel balconies. Vanjie's bare feet dangle six inches off the ground as he lifts himself higher and higher. And Brooke Lynn has never been more grateful for the ballet training he was just cursing because he's able to stand on his tiptoes to balance himself as he reaches out a hand to grasp Vanessa's cheek and places his lips over Vanjie's in the softest, tenderest, and most electrifying kiss he's ever had in his life.

It can't be more than ten seconds before Vanessa loses her balance and tumbles back down to his balcony, breaking their contact and ending the moment far before its fruition, but Brooke can still feel sparks on his lips where the other's were, and Vanessa is looking at him like he isn't sure what to say.

“I'm sorry,” Brooke murmurs, licking his lips, tasting Vanjie's mint lip balm and a hint of the pilfered orange from breakfast that Vanessa must have eaten recently. “I... That shouldn't... I'm _really_ sorry.”

“Naw, Brooke, it's cool, but... It sure would have been a hell of a lot easier if you'd've waited until we were actually standing next to each other... Like on solid ground, bitch.” Vanjie laughs then, uproariously and gleefully, and Brooke finds himself chuckling along.

“You're probably right,” he agrees, absentmindedly running a finger across his bottom lip that still tingles a little.

Vanessa stoops, grabs his script from off the ground, and straightens the baseball cap on his head. “Well. I guess that means you'll just have to try again tomorrow. Good night, Miss Brooke.”

With a wink, Vanjie sashays back into his hotel room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! Come stan all things Branjie with me on tumblr @artificialmeggie


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something has to change, Vanessa seizes an opportunity, and Brooke still can't let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe you guys. Seriously, every word of every review, every kudo... I live. Thank you. Thank you. You motivate me to keep up with this ridiculousness.

“I been thinking 'bout you a lot,” Vanessa says to him the next time they're alone, which is the next night, after they've wrapped filming for the day, after dinner, after a silent van ride back to the hotel where they'd held hands under the cover of Brooke Lynn's jacket but avoided making eye contact because Silky had Vanjie and Plastique engaged in a conversation about wigs the entire way. The heat from their skin was nearly searing because the two of them have a _secret_ now and it's all Brooke's been able to think about all day. He couldn't even squeak out that stupid “Beyon-say what” line during filming because he'd been so preoccupied by it, him, _them_.

Actually, he'd pretty much bombed the entire challenge, if he's being totally honest, and while he can't blame Vanessa for his poor acting, he won't lie and say she wasn't a contributing factor.

They're both lying on their stomachs on their respective balconies, hands stretched through the metal railings, the fingers of both hands laced together, and it isn't the least bit comfortable, but it's the most at home Brooke's felt in this whole competition.

The dew fell hours ago, leaving Brooke's shorts and the stiff white fabric of the hotel pillow where he rests his cheek damp and cool, and it has to be getting on toward two or three in the morning, but neither one of them has made any indication—despite trading stifled yawns every few minutes—that they want to go inside.

He's come to revere these moments with Vanessa, treasure them. He tucks each one away in his memories and spends the next day replaying it, analyzing it, dissecting it for details he may have missed before. Vanjie's like an expensive box of chocolate you get in your Christmas stocking; you want to devour the entire thing in one go, but you force yourself to draw it out, make it last, savor each piece individually so you can guarantee yourself that added pleasure when you most need it.

And boy, does Brooke want to devour Vanessa.

There are still traces of red lipstick around Vanessa's mouth that are just visible in the moonlight and ambient glow of the city, and Brooke's trying to convince himself that's why he can't look away from those full lips. It has absolutely nothing to do with their kiss. Nope. Nothing at all.

Except it has _everything_ to do with their kiss, and he knows he's just kidding himself because he wants more than anything to take Vanessa's face in his hands, feel the stubble brush against the smooth skin of his palms, cradle his chin as they move their lips and tongues and mouths together while he kisses Vanessa like he deserves to be kissed.

So with all that going on in his head, he's surprised at how measured and even his tone is when he responds, “Really?” like Vanessa hasn't also been invading his every waking thought for the past eighteen hours.

“Mmm.” Vanjie releases one of his hands to trace patterns along the delicate skin of Brooke's wrist. It's driving him insane. “You distract me, _mami_.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do about it?” Brooke means for it to be teasing and flirtatious and contain a little bit of a hidden wink, a nod to what he knows they'd both _like_ to do about it, do to each other (not like they can act on it.), but Vanessa's fingers are relentless, leaving trails of fire and wisps of smoke where they spark along the flash paper of Brooke's skin. They're _combustible._

So instead of flirting, it sounds more like longing and yearning because the only time they're truly alone is when they're out here together like this, and this is hardly a way to further develop a relationship. It's like prison, metal bars and all. And even some prisoners get conjugal visits, for god's sake.

Vanessa sighs because he knows as well as Brooke Lynn does that there's nothing they _can_ do. At least for now, when they're constantly monitored by either camera crews or production assistants or surrounded by the other queens or kept apart by a fifty-foot drop and two metal fences.

“I don't know,” Vanjie finally says into the darkness and squeezes Brooke's wrist. Sparking. Smoldering. “But sooner or later, we gotta figure something out. I can't stand another seven weeks of being this close to you and not being able to be _close_ to you.”

*****

Brooke decides overnight (or maybe first thing upon waking in the morning; it's all a little fuzzy and he didn't actually sleep that well) that Vanjie is absolutely right—something must be done; because as nice as holding hands on the van and balcony every morning, noon, and night is, Brooke wants to hold _Vanessa_ , wants to take his tiny, delicate frame into his much larger, sturdier one and just _protect_  him and kiss his forehead and nose and cheeks and pull him into his body as they fall asleep side by side, curled around each other.

Brooke bides his time while they paint for the runway (though he and Vanjie sneak tiny glimpses and glances and grins in the mirrors whenever possible) and waits patiently through their critiques (and how can he possibly ignore Vanessa, standing there in his rose-covered scales of truth, justice, and the American goddamn way?).

It's unbearable. He might be a water sign, koi fish dancing across his body in this dress, but all he feels are flames licking at his feet, ignited and fanned by Vanjie's Libra air, threatening to burn him from the inside if he doesn't get some relief soon.

When production holds them backstage so Kahanna can have her final moment in the Werk Room, Vanessa finally seizes an opportunity when Brooke asks to use the restroom.

The PA nods and points in the general direction of the closest bathroom without looking up from her phone. “You need help?” the PA finally thinks to ask, but Vanjie brushes her off with a wave and winks at Brooke.

“I gotta go, too, so... I got it.”

Brooke tries to keep his smile contained as Vanessa falls into step beside him, and they're walking so close together that their hands brush every few steps.

And then Vanjie's hand is on the small of his back as Brooke twists the knob of the bathroom door and they tumble in together like horny teenagers—really, are they any better?—and thank _god_ this restroom is single occupancy because Brooke is able to back Vanessa against the closed door and take his face in his hands and press their mouths together full-on like he's been dying to do for the last day.

_Ignition._

Vanessa's hands are all over now, pulling Brooke closer to him, grasping as best he can at the slick blue and orange fabric of his dress, gripping through layers of panels and tights and padding in a vain attempt to make contact with skin and flesh, to pull them as close together as possible because _this_... This is what they meant by needing something to change, by not being able to spend seven weeks close without being _close_.

There's heat and static and tiny moans and whimpers from both of them when their tongues meet, and Vanessa tastes like mint toothpaste and lipstick and something Brooke can't quite place but thinks might just be _him_ , and it's then that he knows he wants more, more, _more_.

But then Vanessa pulls away and puts a hand to his mouth, and Brooke Lynn swallows hard because he knows exactly what the other is thinking. Because it's good and real and intense, and honestly, it wouldn't take much more than Vanessa asking him (or even just looking up at him with those glitter-lined eyes) for Brooke to strip their drag off, bend Vanjie over the sink, and pull his hair as he pounds into him from behind.

Hard.

Fast.

Relentless.

But they both deserve more than clandestine hookups in hidden bathrooms while a disinterested PA waits down the hall ten yards away.

They're _blazing_.

They seem to make the decision silently, but together: if they're doing this, they're doing it right. So Vanessa reaches over and brushes a stray strand of Brooke's hair back into place with a shy grin.

“Can't have my jush looking out of place.” And then he presses his lips to the corner of Brooke's mouth and they linger, arms wrapped around each other for as long as they dare. It's not enough, but it's _something_ , it's _more._

When they pull apart, they stand side by side in the mirror as Brooke tries to salvage his lipstick, the soft nude shade now mottled with Vanjie's vivid red. When he rubs it in enough it turns an acceptable shade of tannish-pink, and he prays that maybe none of the other girls will notice the change.

“Is it real obvious?” Vanjie asks almost timidly, after he's taken a paper towel to his chin, trying his best to clean up where the red has bled into the foundation at his lip line. “I mean... Can you tell?”

Can he tell? Absolutely. And he wants nothing more than to kiss every trace of lipstick from Vanessa's mouth. To kiss him hard and not stop until they're both gasping for breath and all that's left are swollen, plump lips on an already perfect mouth and neither one can remember what color their lipstick was when they started.

Can anyone else tell? Brooke thinks not and assures him as much. After all, it's not like they're wearing ninety-nine cent lipstick on the runway, for Christ's sake. This stuff has some staying power.

They embrace for one last hug and one last slow, careful, lingering kiss to get them through until the next time (whenever it may be) and rejoin the rest of the girls, and Brooke can't help but notice that A'keria eyes them carefully and her gaze flicks back and forth between them a few times before a smug smile fixes itself on her lips.

After they're undressed and dedragged and wrapped for the night, Brooke is first to the van (as usual), but he can't shake that image of A'keria and her little knowing grin. So he implores Nina and Shuga to sit in the back with him as they file in. No big deal, Brooke thinks, they always sit in different places.

But they _haven't_ , at least not him and Vanessa, not since Vanjie claimed his spot by Brooke's side that morning after their first night on the balcony. They are always together. Always huddled in their own corner of the van, thighs brushing, fingers wrapped around each other but hidden from view, heads bent low as they talk about the day's events, ignoring everyone else, everything else, staring at each other's lips and into each other's eyes and wishing, hoping, praying for any moment alone.

He thought they'd been so careful. Maybe they haven't been careful enough. Maybe they're a wildfire.

A'keria looks confused and maybe even a little disappointed as she climbs into the van and sees Brooke sandwiched between Nina and Shuga, but Vanessa... Vanessa's radiant smile falls from his lips and he meets Brooke's eyes for only a split second before Brooke feels far too guilty and has to look down at his lap and start picking superglue from his nail beds.

Vanjie sits in the front with A'keria and Silky, and he remains quiet for the entire ride. He's hurt, and Brooke is responsible for that hurt, and that's worse than anything A'keria thinks she might have seen.

Later than night, Brooke takes his usual midnight cigarette break before bed expecting to see Vanjie, talk to him, explain the situation, how he was feeling, how they really must start being more careful because A'keria might _know_ and that would spell disaster for both of them, especially if—when—she tells someone else... But Vanessa never emerges from his room.

So Brooke Lynn smokes three cigarettes instead of one, alone in the middle of his balcony, gazing out on the lights of Los Angeles that lose some of their shine without Vanessa there beside him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still Branjieing around on Tumblr @artificialmeggie. Come hang and say hello if that's your jush!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vanessa calls it like she sees it, Nina gives Brooke some advice, and Brooke learns to relax (a little).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. This one was difficult. It took a village. Thank you TheArtificialDane, pinkgrapefuit, formercongressman, and mia_ugly for reading and suggesting and making this chapter what it is. I would not have done this if it weren't for every single one of you.
> 
> ALL of them are incredible writers in their own regards, so please check out their work as well.
> 
> As for your comments and kudos, I appreciate every.single.one.of.them. more than I can possibly say. I hope this one is worth the wait.

Brooke Lynn spends Friday night in and out of fitful sleep, dreams punctuated with hot, heavy kisses that taste like peppermint and broken promises pressed against secluded bathroom doors. It's the same dream every time—they're kissing, groping, grasping each other, and then Vanessa pulls away and looks up at him with hurt in her dark eyes, and Brooke wakes, drenched in sweat with a knot of guilt fully formed in his gut.

He rises early on Saturday morning and (after a cigarette on the balcony, _alone,_ again) stumbles into the bathroom to peer at himself in the mirror, ultimately becoming dismayed at the dark circles etched under his eyes. If he cared, he'd smear on some concealer before venturing downstairs for breakfast, but try as he might, he can't make himself put on makeup on a day when he _doesn't have to_ be in drag. So he settles for tugging on his favorite white hoodie and grey beanie and heads downstairs just after seven hoping to beat the rest of the girls to an early breakfast.

He gets his wish. He's first to the conference room and could have his pick of yogurt, fresh fruit, or muffins; but Brooke needs _comfort_ today, after that hollow look in Vanessa's eyes had haunted his dreams last night and left her gutted. Instead, he waits a few moments until a steaming chafing dish of oatmeal is brought out by a hotel employee. He spoons a good amount into a bowl and dresses it with a scoop of raisins and far more brown sugar than is healthy. It reminds him of being seven years old and sitting at the kitchen table with his mother on a Saturday morning. It’s _comfortable_.

Brooke watches as the brown sugar melts and then he stirs his breakfast lazily, relaxing into his chair at the table farthest from the lone production assistant in the room. The PA avoids eye contact, and Brooke is glad—he's more than happy to forego small talk with the poor intern who drew the short straw and was assigned Saturday queen babysitting duty.

And then, just as Brooke's oatmeal cools to an edible temperature, the conference room door swings open and in walks Vanessa; terry cloth shorts slung low on her hips, Adidas slides scuffing on the carpet, and red zippered jacket undone to her bellybutton exposing that perfectly toned, perfectly tanned chest that's the exact color of the molten brown sugar in Brooke's oatmeal.

Brooke wants to run his tongue over the curves and dips and swoops of that chest more than almost anything. He settles for scooping up a bite of oatmeal shot through with a ribbon of brown sugar. He turns the spoon over in his mouth and sucks every molecule of sweetness from it. Absentmindedly, he wonders if Vanjie's skin tastes as sweet.

Across the empty room, Vanessa's eyes meet his, and Brooke finds it difficult to swallow. Then Vanjie sets her jaw and quirks up her nose and maybe (just _maybe_ , or maybe Brooke imagines it) swings her hips a little more than is entirely necessary as she moves to the buffet table to help herself to a bowl of yogurt.

She takes her time scooping in sliced strawberries, whole blueberries, and granola, and it feels like two geological ages of sheer unadulterated torture for Brooke, who watches every motion carefully.

At this point, he's practically licked his oatmeal bowl clean, imagining the curves of the white porcelain to be the swerves of Vanjie's smooth back, the spoon to be his own hands, exploring every inch of Vanessa as thoroughly and completely as possible. Like he wants to. Like he longs to.

He's pretty much ruined any shot he had at that, he supposes.

Then Vanessa sits in the chair directly across from Brooke Lynn and spends another long moment stirring her yogurt together, and Brooke wonders if maybe he still has a chance.

Brooke watches her eat, but neither one of them speaks. He knows they're both too stubborn for their own damn good.

Finally, Brooke grows too uncomfortable with the silence, so he sets his bowl on the table and clears his throat. “Sleep well?”

Vanessa shrugs. “All right. Coulda been better. I don't like it when people get pissed off at me for no reason.” And she narrows her eyes pointedly and just stares.

“I'm not... Jesus.” Brooke sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, Vanj, I'm _not_ mad at you.”

Vanjie tuts and takes a bite of yogurt. “Care to explain what last night in the van was then? Or do you got a habit of making out with people in bathrooms and then ghosting ‘em?”

“Granted, I did not handle that well,” Brooke says slowly. “I get in my head, okay? I’m… Look, I thought maybe A’keria saw something, and I kind of freaked.”

Vanessa shakes her head. “A’keria didn’t see shit.” Then she reaches across the table and takes Brooke’s hand in her own. “And even if she did, so what? You _gotta_ relax, _mami_.”

“You don’t care if the girls know that we’re… What _are_ we doing exactly?”

Vanjie shrugs. “We’re… getting to know each other.”

“Getting to know each other…” Brooke repeats it slowly and turns the phrase over in his head because he’s never done _this_ before. He’s had one-night stands and friends-with-benefits, but there’s never been anyone to _Get To Know_ . Never been anyone he’s _wanted_ to get to know quite like he wants to know Vanjie.

It scares him. Not that he’s afraid of feelings, really, but he’s level-headed and goal-oriented and this was _definitely not in The Plan_ when he started auditioning for _Drag Race_ two years ago. So he’s afraid of feelings in this setting because how is he supposed to concentrate on presenting his perfect _Drag Race_ package when Hurricane Vanessa is swirling around him?

_But how do you brace for a category five storm?_

“Yeah, okay,” Brooke says slowly. “We’re getting to know each other...”

Vanessa smiles at him. “Maybe we could start with boy names. I’m Jose, by the way.”

“Brock,” Brooke says softly, shaking the hand that Vanjie has offered. It feels different, more intimate now that he’s been formally introduced to the boy behind the drag.

“Brock…” Vanessa repeats quietly, almost testing the name, trying it out to see how it rolls off her tongue. Brooke heaves a sigh of relief when she smiles. “Yeah, it fits.”

And Brooke is blushing, the fire that ignited between them when their lips collided last night is back in full force, burning her from the inside out, so he smiles and ducks his head and hopes he doesn’t look like an idiot. He never wants to look stupid; he’s worked for years to curate this careful image of perfection, but he’s especially concerned with how Vanessa perceives him.

“Well. We have all day off today,” Vanessa says. Having finished her breakfast, she pushes herself up from the table and stretches her arms above her head, exposing another two inches of flat, taut stomach that peeks out over the waistband of her shorts.

Brooke’s mouth practically waters, yearns for that molten brown sugar skin beneath his fingers, lips, tongue.

“If you wanna come get to know me a little better in my room feel free to come by,” Vanjie continues. “But wait ‘til after lunch. I gotta take a nap.”

Brooke laughs. “Didn’t you just wake up?”

“I wanted to talk to you before the rest of the girls came down.”

“How did you know I’d be down here?”

“Our beds share a wall,” she says with a wink. “And you snore like a fucking moose.” Vanessa struts around behind him, wraps her arms around his neck, and presses a kiss into his temple. “See you later, _mami._ ”

*****

Brooke’s working on his third cup of coffee when Nina finally makes it into the conference room for breakfast.

“Good morning!” she sing-songs as she slides into the chair two down from Brooke. “How are you?”

Brooke shrugs a little and flashes a tight-lipped grin before he takes another sip from his mug, but Nina’s eyes narrow.

“You have a secret.”

“What?”

“I know you, Hytes.” Nina reaches for the salt and pepper shaker and generously seasons her scrambled eggs. “I’ve known you for literally your _entire_ drag career and your face right now? It _screams_ ‘I’ve got a secret.’ So what’s the tea?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Nina,” Brooke asserts, trying his best to keep her wits about him. Nina is awfully convincing when she wants something, and if Brooke is being honest with himself, he values his friend’s opinion.

“Okay. That’s fine.” Nina takes a bite of her eggs and watches Brooke Lynn with an amused expression. “But I’m going to find out. Because I always find out. So you might as well just tell me what it is.”

And Brooke crumbles because Nina is right—she _has_ known him for her entire career and they’re friends. He trusts Nina implicitly and he needs reassurance. So Brooke sucks in a deep breath.

“I think I kind of have a crush on Jose.” He says it quickly because as soon as the words leave his lips, he knows how it sounds: so, _so very_ _junior high_ that he expects Nina to laugh in his face, and really, would he deserve anything less?

“Oh.” It’s almost worse that Nina’s eyes grow wide and her mouth falls open a little, specks of egg on her tongue, and she says, “Who’s Jose?”

And Brooke feels the blood rush even deeper into his cheeks. He must be a dark shade of purple because the room is suddenly extremely hot, _boiling_ almost ( _why_ is he drinking hot coffee in June?), and he wants nothing more than for a hole to open right underneath him and swallow him completely. This is junior high school all over again, and he is being teased for being too feminine.

“Vanessa,” he says weakly, then clears his throat. “Vanjie?”

“Oh,” Nina says again. And then, “ _Ohh_.”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” Nina stabs at her eggs. “Umm. Does Jose feel the same way?”

“I mean…” Brooke shrugs and picks at a spot of superglue still stuck to his thumbnail. “We kissed in the bathroom after the runway last night.”

“So… Yes?” Nina smiles at him, but Brooke shrugs again. “Listen, Brooke, I think if someone’s swapping spit with you, they’re interested.”

“We’re getting to know each other.” When he says it to someone else, the phrase takes on a different feeling. It’s not as tangible or solid. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. Then he remembers Vanjie’s arms around his neck, her lips against his temple, the smell of her cologne that’s always a little too strong… And those _are_ tangible things.

“Oh my god, _Drag Race’s_ first romance,” Nina says, sighing dramatically and placing a hand over her heart. “ _Please_ tell me I get to be the flower gay when you guys get married.”

Brooke groans and drains his coffee mug.

*****

It’s a little after two when Vanessa comes looking for Brooke.

Three sharp raps on his door and Brooke answers, expecting Nina or Plastique or even Ra’jah, but instead it’s Vanjie, hip popped to the side, lips quirked up in a smirk.

“I said after lunch, ho.” She pushes past Brooke into the room without being invited in. Not that she needs an invitation. Brooke supposes she always has one.

“Yeah, I lost track of time,” Brooke lies. He hadn’t. He  _had_ one hundred percent chickened out of going over to Vanessa’s room because Nina’s comment about them being _Drag Race’s_ first romance had, honestly, pushed him back into her head. Not that it’s _difficult_ to do, but he had been counting on Nina for reassurance. “I was stoning and… You know how into stoning you can get… Time just flies...”

Vanessa grins knowingly, and Brooke knows he’s caught because his room smells nothing like the tell-tale fumes of E6000, and there aren’t any stray rhinestones anywhere. His room is practically spotless (with the exception of a towel slung across the chair), but Vanjie says nothing about the obvious lie.

“So, I should tell you something…” Vanjie says, clasping her hands together and spinning around to face Brooke. “Promise you won’t get mad.”

Brooke narrows his eyes. “I hesitantly promise I won’t get mad. But I’m Canadian, so it would really be more like kind of annoyed and not so much mad.”

“Well, anyway.” Vanjie bites her lip. “I kind of told Silky that we maybe had a little something going on. Actually what I said was, ‘Brooke Lynn is trade. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating cookies.’ If you know what I’m saying...”

Brooke is so relieved because he knows he should warn Vanjie that Nina is aware of their situation as well, and now he doesn’t have to broach the subject himself. Vanessa has provided him the perfect transition. He’s choosing to ignore the bed comment for now. For his own sanity.

He clears his throat. “That’s funny… Because I told Nina that I had a little bit of a crush on you.”

He might imagine it, but Brooke would swear that Vanjie blushes before she laughs uproariously and says, “A crush? Are you fourteen, Mary?”

Brooke just shrugs. “Look, I don’t know how this whole thing works—”

But suddenly he can’t speak anymore because Vanessa’s lips are on his and her arms are around Brooke’s neck, and they’re kissing so softly that he forgets what he was even saying because the only thing that matters is the heat and static between them.

And it’s _different_ this time because there’s only them, just him and Vanjie. No cameras, no other queens with prying eyes, no PAs waiting outside the bathroom to escort them back to the Werk Room where they’ll be watched and recorded and lorded over until they’re driven back to the hotel and locked in their rooms. So Brooke _breathes_ and relaxes into Vanessa and the warm pressure of her mouth as it moves rhythmically against his.

Then Vanessa pulls away and looks up at her with big sparkling eyes, and Brooke knows he’s done for. This isn’t just a junior high school crush. He could develop _feelings_ for Vanessa.

Brooke loves his mom and his siblings and his cats deeply and unabashedly because he knows they’re stuck with him. He has spent years telling himself that he could get by on a life of hookups because feelings are messy and only led to heartbreak and disaster.

He’s always been so _focused_ , there’s just never been time to make a connection.

And here he is, in the middle of the biggest competition of his life, and Vanessa dropped into his lap.

_So how do you brace for a category five storm?_

You hold on and hope for the best.

“Is this okay?” Vanjie asks him as she blinks rapid-fire. Nervous energy, she drips with it. “That I’m here? That I just really wanted to kiss you again so I did it?”

_Hurricane Vanessa makes landfall and wipes out all of Brooke Lynn Hytes’s carefully constructed barriers._

“Okay. Of course it’s okay.” Brooke breathes and anchors his hands on Vanessa’s hips. It’s all they’ve wanted for the past few days—no barriers, no restrictions. “I really wanted to kiss you again, too, but I thought maybe after the van last night that it would be weird.”

“You think too much,” Vanessa says softly, pulling gently on the string of Brooke’s hoodie. “You wanna kiss me again? Stop talking and do it. Step up, bitch.”

So Brooke Lynn obliges, and it’s all fire between them as their mouths meld together once again. She still tastes like mint and strawberries and the smallest hint of spice that Brooke was convinced is just Vanjie but now recognizes as brown sugar. He smiles against Vanessa’s mouth.

Brooke can’t stifle the moan when Vanjie rolls his bottom lip between her teeth and tugs gently, so Brooke dives _deeper_.

He could kiss Vanessa forever, Brooke thinks as they stumble backwards onto the unmade bed, because it feels like the easiest thing in the world.

_It feels like breathing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think, either here or on tumblr @artificialmeggie. 
> 
> My ask box is always open. Come scream in my face about Branjie or Trixya or literally anything because I'm promise you, I'm there for it.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brooke regrets telling Nina, asks Vanjie what it all means, and receives an offer he can't refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Evan, my conspiracy partner in crime. I buy 100% of your theories and live for Nancy Drew nights, babe. Thank you for being you and for letting me borrow one of your theories. ;) 
> 
> Thank you to pinkgrapefruit for taking a look at this before anyone else and telling me I was on the right track and to writworm42 for giving it the final once-over.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to all the beautiful souls on the Branjie Discord because every single one of you lights up my life on the daily. Who else can I geek out with about THAT LIVE at 11 p.m. and theorize with at 11 a.m. when I'm supposed to be teaching America's youth? TL;DR: you guys are the shit and I'm so glad we've made our little family.
> 
> And to all of you, for reading and commenting and leaving kudos. You make this otherwise useless hobby of mine worthwhile. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

It’s halfway through Monday before Brooke starts to regret telling Nina.

He and Vanessa spend Saturday talking and kissing and “getting to know each other.” Production takes them to a movie on Sunday, so they hold hands under the cover of darkness in the theater and hidden under Vanjie’s hoodie in the van.

No one really seems to be any the wiser. Silky and Nina watch them with sidelong glances, Silky through narrowed, cynical eyes, and Nina with her Disney character smile and the excitement of a mother watching her child flourish and blossom for the first time.

Brooke guesses he can’t exactly hold that against her—Nina _has_ been like a surrogate drag mother to him, and this _is_ a pretty big step forward for Brooke Lynn, who until this point was pretty sure he was going to die alone in his apartment and be devoured by his cats.

He’s an optimist.

What he _can_ and absolutely _will_ hold against Nina is choosing both him and Vanessa to be on her team for the Diva Worship challenge.

(Although Brooke will never complain about working with Nina because he adores her. Just call him Delano.)

And Brooke isn’t _mad_ about working with Vanjie, but they had decided (together. After many shared kisses and touches) that it may be better to keep things under wraps for now. They both know that eventually this thing between them—whatever it is—will have to be revealed to the other girls, but Brooke is hopeful they can get to the top seven or eight before it becomes an issue.

Not to mention that it’s probably best they keep their distance. It will be easier to keep their heads on straight that way. Easier to not get distracted. Just a better situation all around.

(If he’s being _completely honest_ , he had said all this while Vanessa nibbled at his neck and run his hands under Brooke’s shirt and hummed his consent against Brooke’s lips.)

But before Vanjie had left for the night, Brooke paused and pulled away and said, “Seriously. We can’t let this get in the way.”

Vanessa had smirked a little, but nodded. “You right. When I beat you I want it to be because I beat you, not ‘cause you were distracted by all this.” Then he’d taken Brooke’s hands and run them down his body until they’d landed on his hips, and they’d started kissing again, long and deep and languid.)

Ballet training is about discipline, and normally Brooke has that in spades. But when Vanessa is around, all bets are off. He wants to touch him, hug him, kiss him. He longs to pull him into his lap, press his mouth against the sensitive pulse point just under Vanjie's ear, and suck gently, like he’d done countless times over the weekend after he’d discovered the way it made Vanjie’s breath hitch in his throat.

But Brooke is a Professional(TM), and no amount of animal magnetism that draws him to Vanessa will distract him from his main goal: the crown, the title, the $100,000 he has earmarked for charity. The knowledge that _he actually fucking did it_. That he won the biggest pageant of his life. That he’s _worthy_.

There are no second chances on _Drag Race_ for girls like him, the polished, poised, and perfect ones, the ones who should win the first time around, and Brooke knows he has to get this right on the first go. No. Excuses.

No distractions.

So. He isn’t pressed about working with Vanjie, but he doesn’t think it’s fair that he’s essentially performing two challenges in the same go, even if it’s by his own making. Because fighting the temptation to touch Vanessa is proving to be one of the most difficult things he’s encountered so far. Even though he knows it’s for the best.

Luckily Nina sees it fit to assign Brooke the role as her co-host and give Vanessa a role of his own, and Brooke sighs in relief. He’s more than happy to play second fiddle to Nina, feed off her energy, banter. That part will be easy. Finding ways to treat Vanessa like just a good Judy for the next twenty-four hours… That might not be so simple.

*****

Silky’s on their team too. Which is fine. Silky is good off the cuff. Silky will make the best of the challenge, even though she’s working with Ariel, and their relationship is more than strained after last week’s blow up. But they’re fine. They’ll be fine.

Brooke constantly feels eyes on him, and he knows they almost certainly belong to Dr. Ganache, watching him, judging him.

They fly through the challenge. He and Nina banter and it’s easy and wonderful; their years of friendship pay off again. Silky and Ariel sound great when they do their music number, any drama from last week cast aside in Britney’s name. And then there’s Vanjie…

Vanessa performs his exorcism on Yvie and Mercedes, and Brooke nearly ruins his makeup because he’s laughing so hard. And it’s that personality, the sense of humor, the sheer wit and ability to let go and be human (flawed and brilliant and totally, completely beautiful) that Brooke feels himself so attracted to.

“You messaged me,” Vanjie had said on Saturday when they were lying together in Brooke’s bed, the lengths of their bodies pressed together, Vanessa's fingertips tracing the outlines of Brooke’s daisies with the lightest of touches. “Remember? Last year?”

Brooke had nodded. “When you were eliminated. I thought you should have stayed. I remember.”

“You were so nice.” Vanessa had kissed him then, soft and sweet. Innocent. Like (almost) all of their kisses had been over the weekend. “People were being nice to me because of the meme, but you were… I don’t know. It was different. Like you already saw Jose and not just Vanjie.”

“I’m surprised _you_ remember,” Brooke had admitted, propping his head in his hands and looking down at Vanessa.  “I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who messaged you.”

“No,” Vanjie had confessed. “But you were the only one that stood out.”

“Damn, I must be a better writer than I thought.”

“Sure…” He’d drawled. “Also I thought you were cute.”

“Then why didn’t you message me back?”

“I never said I was smart, Mary.” Vanjie had shrugged. “If I knew what kind of kisser you were, maybe I would have.”

Brooke had covered Vanessa’s body with his own after that, and slotted their mouths together, and time had slipped by while they kissed and caressed and whispered secrets into one another’s skin.

Brooke has just started on his third makeup wipe when Vanessa saunters up to him at the mirror. “You be lookin’ like Jinkx Monsoon in that red hair today, Miss Brooke.”

They bump hips playfully. “I was just channeling a winner,” Brooke says, carefully picking the Pros-Aide from his eyebrows with the wipe. “Don’t want a repeat of last week.”

“Mmm. Made me wanna kiss you real bad.” Vanjie’s voice is low, barely audible even to Brooke, and it sends shivers down his back and raises goosebumps on his arms.

Brooke pauses, face still half-smeared with makeup, and places his palms on the counter. Vanessa follows suit, twisting their pinkies together. He knows he’s imagining it, but to Brooke all the background noise of the Werk Room fades to nothing. Silky’s boisterous laugh disappears, Ariel’s incessant vocal runs dissipate… All he hears is the pounding of his heart in his ears and the rush of breath in and out of his lungs that burn for Vanjie with every inhale.

“Hey, guys!” Nina drops her own package of makeup remover wipes on the counter to Brooke’s right, shattering the moment and causing Vanessa to pull his hand away suddenly.

Brooke starts at the lack of contact, and he misses it immediately, but he sighs.

_No distractions._

“Great work today,” Nina says sincerely. “Both of you. You were hilarious, Vanessa.”

Vanjie gives Nina a tight-lipped smile and turns to Brooke, pulling him into a hug. “Come to my room after dinner,” he whispers into Brooke's ear. “And don’t chicken out this time.”

Brooke nods and watches as Vanessa rejoins Silky and A’keria across the room. Then he sighs heavily and looks at Nina.

“Was it something I said?” Nina asks, concern painted over her features. “I really meant it! She was great!”

Brooke just laughs. “Girl, I love you, but you really do have the worst timing.”

*****

They have dinner together in the conference room (with Mercedes, Silky, A’keria, and Nina; totally innocent, even with Vanessa’s bare foot rubbing against Brooke’s ankle under the table), then Brooke brushes his teeth and waits the agreed-upon fifteen minutes before he ventures into the hall and knocks on Vanessa’s door.

He answers almost immediately and pulls him in by the collar of his hoodie and crashes their lips together in a rough greeting kiss.

“Hey, _papi,_ ” he says when Vanjie pulls away with a quiet moan.

“Hi,” Vanessa echoes, palms landing flat on his chest. “Bitch, I been wanting to do that all damn day.”

“I know. Me too.”

“You got me _fucked up_ , Brock,” Vanessa says, running a hand through her short hair and turning towards the bed. “Okay so. So… Okay. We just can’t work together anymore.”

He nods. “I told you. It’s just better that way.”

Vanjie’s pacing the room, nervously rubbing his hands on her shorts, occasionally shaking his hands out when he starts to speak.

One of his favorite things about Vanessa, he’s noticed already, is the way he talks with his hands. Brooke had asked him once, in the middle of a diatribe, if he would still be able to speak if he held his arms behind his back.

Vanjie had merely raised an eyebrow, told him that was a kinky question to be asking a lady, and offered to let him find out. Which had made him blush and change the subject rather quickly because too many offers like that and he was going to take him up on it. And that kind of control, he can’t afford to lose right now.

“Whatever this is,” Vanessa mutters, waving her hands wildly, “we gotta keep it separate from the competition.”

“What is this,” Brooke responds before he can stop himself, “exactly?” He knows it’s asking a lot. It’s far too soon for them to have this conversation, but in the microcosm of _Drag Race_ , everything seems to be moving at warp speed. Truth be told, nothing’s ever felt as firm as _whatever this is_ between him and Vanessa. Putting a name on it, well… It just seems like that natural next step.

Plus that’s just how he operates. He’s an all-in kind of girl.

Vanessa stops pacing and looks at him. “It’s whatever you want it to be, baby.” He shrugs. “We can just fuck around and never speak after this, we can… _Shit_ , I don’t know.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know what I want for breakfast most days.” Vanjie shakes his head and smiles a little. “But I know I like you… A lot. And I like kissing you a _lot_. You’ve made being here easier and I don’t want that to end any time soon so...” He shrugs. “Whatever that means to you, Mary.”

“I like you a lot, too,” Brooke says and grips his chin and presses his lips to the corner of Vanjie's mouth, testing the waters, waiting to see how he responds.

He melts into him, body folds like origami against his sturdiness, and he uses his other hand to catch her underneath her elbow as he probes deeper into the crevices of his mouth.

This is familiar now. After their weekend spent cuddling in bed, he knows every inch of Vanessa's mouth, recognizes the taste. His lips are familiar with the way Vanjie's move against his (and what a _spectacular way_ they move). Less familiar is he with the way the smaller queen grips his back, fingernails digging into the muscle that ripples beneath his hoodie, holding on for dear life; the way he moves to straddle Brooke's thigh, the semi-hardness of him already evident in his thin shorts.

They could… It’s just after nine. Room checks aren’t for another hour and a half…

Desire stirs in Brooke's stomach and he shifts and reaches for Vanjie's thighs, lifting him in one swift motion so his legs are wrapped around his waist. He carries Vanessa backwards to the bed as he presses gentle, airsoft kisses into his jawline.

Brooke lowers them both down softly, careful to shift his weight onto his knees and not on Vanjie as they lie together in bed. “Is this okay? We can stop anytime. Just say the word. I’ll listen, all right?” he asks, desperate for Vanjie to confirm, to beg him to continue.

“If you don’t stop talking and kiss me, I swear to god, Brock…” As if to prove his point, Vanessa angles his hips upwards, right into where Brooke is most sensitive and yearning for the other, and his breath catches in his throat as Vanjie grips his neck and closes the gap between them.

He reaches for the drawstring on Vanessa's shorts, finally ready to realize every dream he’s had for the past week, when there’s a knock at the door. Vanjie pulls away and glances at the door, confusion written across his delicate features.

“Vanj? You in there? It’s Silk. I got one of the PAs to go get some snacks from the Walmart!”

“Shit. _Shit._ ” Vanjie scrambles out from under Brooke, tugging at his shorts to cover the obvious bulge, rubbing at his lips to diffuse the redness, both to no avail.

“Ignore her,” Brooke whispers.

“Nah, she won’t go away,” he replies, running a hand through his short hair. “We just… Look, turn the TV on, okay? We were watching a movie.”

Brooke Lynn sits back against the headboard (and pulls a pillow into his lap) as he flips on the TV and watches Vanessa open the door to reveal Silky standing in the hall, holding a reusable shopping bag.

“It’s not a lot,” the larger queen says as she barrels into the room, “But I got gummy bears and Pringles and—Oh. Hey, Brooke Lynn.” Silky pauses halfway between the door and the bed and glances between Vanessa and Brooke a few times.

Vanjie shifts uncomfortably from his left to right a few times and offers Silky the chair against the wall. “Brooke and I were watching a movie.”

Silky’s eyes narrow and she glances at the TV. “Yeah? Which one?”

Brooke hadn’t been paying that much attention to the TV when he turned it on, so he presses the info button on the remote and can hardly believe their luck. He clears his throat. “Umm. _Deep Impact_.”

Silky nods. “Should I come back?”

“No!” Vanjie says quickly and guides Silky to the chair. “No. No, you can definitely stay and hang with us and watch…” He glances at Brooke, “ _Deep Impact_ with us, right, Brooke?”

Brooke offers a sort of half-salute, but he feels his cheeks burn with shame. Five minutes ago, he thought he was about to get laid. Now he’s watching a bad sci-fi movie with Silky and Vanessa.

After procuring a bag of gummy bears from Silky, Vanjie crawls back in bed and situates himself underneath Brooke’s arm. He looks up at Brooke and grins.

It’s not what he had in mind, but he guesses it isn’t the worst thing he could be doing.

*****

Ten-thirty rolls around much more quickly than anticipated when he’s spending time laughing and snuggling and sneaking kisses when Silky’s head is turned to A’keria or Nina or Yvie, filling them in on the latest gossip from the Werk Room.

But soon the head Production Assistant—Maya—raps on Vanessa’s door and tells them it’s almost time for room checks. So Brooke waits until everyone else has filtered out of the room before he pulls Vanessa close and kisses him goodnight.

“Sorry our plans got derailed,” Vanjie says quietly, pulling on his hoodie. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

Brooke Lynn shrugs. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Until we don’t.”

“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon, okay?” Brooke kisses him again, harder this time, to convince him just how confident in him he is already. “Especially not this week, Miss I-Thanked-Myself Vanjie.”

Vanessa closes his eyes and rests their foreheads together. “See you tomorrow, _mami_.”

“Good night,” he whispers and closes the door behind him.

Maya is waiting in the hallway, back against the wall between their hotel room doors.

“Hey, Brooke,” she says softly. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment. Can I come in?”

He doesn’t really think that’s a question he can say no to, so he swipes his key card, holds out his arms, and welcomes the woman into his room.

Maya is all business—clutching a clipboard to her chest, earpiece firmly in place, walkie-talkie permanently connected to her hip—and Brooke’s stomach drops because surely this can only mean one thing: they’ve been found out and he and Vanjie are both about to be sent packing. A double disqualification. They’ll make Willam’s ordeal look like child’s play.

He swallows hard and tries to smile as Maya eases herself into the chair against the wall. “What’s up?”

“First of all, you aren’t in any trouble.” Maya smiles up at Brooke, who feels the weight of the world lift off her shoulders. He’s safe. But Vanjie… “Secondly, we’ve noticed that you and Miss Mateo seem to be growing close.”

Brooke freezes, tries to carefully control his features so as not to give anything away. Maya had said _he_ wasn’t in trouble. And there’s nothing in the contract that says relationships are forbidden… Still, at this point, it’s probably best to play things close to the chest. For everyone involved.

“We’re good friends,” Brooke finally settles on. “I like Jose a lot.”

Maya grins. “I know that our rules here at the hotel can seem a bit… _strict_ , especially when it comes to keeping you girls separated at night. I know there are times this ten-thirty room check seems a bit much because I realize there are certainly nights when you’d like to stay up to chat with each other.” She raises an eyebrow. “Or engage in _other_ activities with each other.”

Brooke can’t help it; he blushes furiously, like a 12-year-old girl caught admitting her crush.

“I’ll be blunt, Brooke,” Maya continues. “This is the eleventh season of _Drag Race_ , and we’ve yet to have a romance despite Ru’s wish that there be one. I’m not going to ask you to force feelings if they aren’t there… But if they are developing naturally as I believe them to be, production would be willing to overlook certain rules as far as you and Vanessa are concerned.”

At first, Brooke doesn’t know if he should be offended that they want to use him and Vanessa for ratings or be grateful that they’re being given this opportunity to get to know each other more intimately.

Vanessa had been handsy over the weekend, grabbing Brooke’s ass over his shorts and running his hands under Brooke’s shirt along the broad expanses of his chest and stomach, but Brooke was hesitant to push things too far. It was too fresh, too new. And, if production caught them, who knew what would happen then?

So Brooke had to pull away and look down at Vanessa and tell him to stop, even though what he really wanted to say was, “More more more.” Like tonight. _Just_ like tonight.

Brooke looks up at Maya. “So all we have to do is what exactly?”

“Exactly what you’re doing now,” Maya says with a shrug, “but more in front of the cameras. No need to hide the beginning of something beautiful, am I right?”

“And what _exactly_ do we get out of it?” Brooke isn’t convinced.

“Well, nothing officially. But we’d be willing to…” Maya chews her lip, carefully choosing her words. “ _Overlook_ it if certain rules were broken. Say if one of you were in the other’s room at room checks and had an inclination to stay there… We would probably be willing to turn a blind eye.”

Brooke studies Maya’s face carefully. He’s always played things by the book, afraid to bend, let alone outright break, a rule. But here’s the lead PA practically _telling_ him it would be okay. Still, Brooke isn’t a fool. He understands how easy it would be for production to rescind their offer if he or Vanessa made a misstep.

He remembers Vanessa's lips leaving trails of fire down his neck and his fingertips brushing against the black outlines of the daisies on his arm. He thinks about running his tongue over Vanjie’s cat tattoo, like it was put there just for him, a beacon calling him home, signaling him to where he’s truly supposed to be.

 _We have plenty of time_ , he’d told Vanjie and meant it, confident in both their abilities to last in the competition.

 _Until we don’t_.

_Then they just can’t misstep._

“Can I talk it over with Vanessa?” Brooke says quietly, still not completely believing that he’s considering this, that it could be real, that he’s fallen into something so deep.

Maya shrugs and pushes herself to her feet. “Sure. Or don’t. Either way, I was never here. But we’ll be watching the two of you very carefully.” She pauses by the door with a hand on the frame. “Have a good night, Brooke.”

Brooke nods and watches as Maya flashes him a brilliant smile and leaves the room, walkie-talkie flashing green on her hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on tumblr @artificialmeggie!
> 
> My ask box is always open and I literally love nothing more than talking to people on the Internet.
> 
> I geek out about my favorite queens, my own drag, and fic recs. Get in on it!

**Author's Note:**

> Your kudos, comments, and messages are like nectar to my soul!  
> I'm on Tumblr @artificialmeggie if you want to come play.


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